Meeting- Mystrade
by WingsOfDuskAndDawn
Summary: By popular demand, another Mystrade! A cute little piece, mostly just how I picture Lestrade being flirty and Mycroft being like "what?" T for teen, a little bit of cursing and mostly subtle references. Please review! I OWN NOTHING.


The umbrella was the first thing to catch Gregory Lestrade's attention. Even before the shoes that were so clean the reflected the ceiling, the expertly tailored suit pants, impeccably well-fitting suit, complete with waistcoat, pocket watch, and silvery-blue tie to match his eyes, the umbrella was what he focused on. He had heard, from John Watson, about this man, whose very peculiar method of protecting his brother revolved around kidnapping all those who were a part of his life.

The man with the umbrella was Mycroft Holmes, and Greg had wondered when they would finally meet. He'd been working with the little brother of the "minor government official" ever since he'd discovered the man with the brilliant mind spouting deductions about a serial killer at the local pub, giving Greg time to stop the man before he could officially get started.

His working relationship with Sherlock, however, had been the extent of it, and apparently that hadn't earned a visit from the man with the mysterious umbrella. It was only now, about a month after he'd begun hanging out with John at the apartment he shared with the consulting detective, that he was getting a "visit." Though _visit_ seemed a strange word for the kidnapping of a police officer.

"What's this about, then?" Not agitated, but mildly curious, Greg let himself look all around the warehouse to which he'd been escorted by a beautiful young woman whose hands seemed attached to her phone. It was a very plain place, obviously used for storage on other nights, but tonight it was empty of everything but some dust, the occasional squeaking rodent, and the two men who were contemplating each other from a distance of a few feet away.

"This, Detective Inspector, is an inquiry of sorts." A smile that was obviously meant to be intimidating, because it did not reach his eyes, made it clear to Greg that this was not a man to be messed with. However, instead of being afraid, he was amused.

Amused both because the tactics seemed completely ineffective and because instead of being upset, he was actually wondering what would happen if he walked up and pressed his lips to those thin, aristocratic ones. Would that smile remain the same, or would he shake Mycroft's composure?

"You can call me Greg, you know. I do have a name, even if your brother doesn't ever remember it. Gregory Lestrade, though I'm sure your files have all the information on me from the date of my divorce to the name of the cat whose hair no longer attaches itself to my clothes on a routine basis."

"Quite. Though I am certain that Garfield is worse off for the lack of your company… Gregory." For some reason, the way Mycroft said his name made Greg have to fight a shiver, and he suddenly didn't mind that he'd not used the name everyone called him by.

"Well, thanks for that. So anyway, if you already know everything about me, why am I here, precisely? I get why you kidnapped John; he lives with Sherlock, and he's just a bit of a loose cannon with that gun I'm not supposed to know about, but I don't understand why, when you've waited this long, you'd choose to 'have a chat' with me now."

"Perhaps I am merely curious as to why you've been spending increased amounts of time with my dear younger brother." The tone was aristocratic and arch, and Greg wondered what that voice would sound like screaming his name during climax. He had to resist the urge to curse when a particular part of his anatomy started wondering the same thing.

Then again, though the bulge in the front of his pants did get the other man's attention, the look on his face didn't express annoyance. A little confusion, yes, but there was also interest in his eyes when one of those eyebrows arched upward, silently asking Greg if his sudden erection had anything to do with him.

"We're friends." Greg answered his spoken question, and let his body answer the unspoken one for him.

"If you know Sherlock at all, then you know that he has no friends. Caring is not a Holmes trait. We do not have friends."

"Then what do you call John?" Smiling a little because he knew Mycroft would be hard pressed to answer that one, he was amused when Mycroft's lips pressed together tightly.

"An acquaintance."

"Bullshit." The cop countered him easily, finding it fun to play with this man, despite the fact that he never seemed to smile unless the action was deliberate, despite the fact that he'd given no inclination that he was interested… other than those eyes, which still occasionally darted downward. "Acquaintances don't live together, chase each other around London, and put up with eyeballs and intestines in the fridge or whatever that was that left that stain on their table. And I doubt Sherlock calls mere acquaintances 'conductors of light.'"

A laugh echoed around them in the drafty warehouse, and it startled Lestrade. He guessed, judging by the surprised look on Mycroft's face, that he was also startled. It was a sound the government man hadn't heard from himself in years, and he realized he couldn't remember the last time anyone had genuinely made him laugh. He was beginning to understand why he'd decided that that day would be the perfect time to talk to the Detective Inspector. It was entirely new for him, and he realized he wasn't quite sure how to go about the next part.

Sherlock would have rolled his eyes at Mycroft, not that he didn't do so usually. _Able to kidnap the man without a qualm, but unable to invite him to share your bed, or at least to have coffee? How sentimental of you, brother. It's a simple transaction to get what you want. Or are you afraid you've eaten too much cake these past several days to appeal to the man?_

Of course, that voice belonged to the old Sherlock. Ever since he'd taken up with John, who tended not to put up with his "I'm a genius so I can be a jerk" routine, Sherlock had become a little more understanding, and had begun to be a little nicer. It had been a wonderful change for Mycroft, who'd always looked after his brother without earning so much as a thank you, and he was only just beginning to trust it.

"So you never did say: why now, Mr. Holmes?" Watching him with a curiously buoyant sensation brought on by the laughter making him bold, Greg decided that he could safely make a move. He was, after all, three months divorced, and with his wife out of the picture, he was a free agent again. He wasn't nearly as young as he'd once been, but he'd been well known for his way with the ladies… and the gentlemen. He wondered if his bisexuality had made it into any of Mycroft's files on him. And if it would mean anything to the other man.

"I, um… Simply wished to… Speak with you." Never was Mycroft Holmes at a loss for words, but now he was. He tacked on at the end, to be polite, "And you should call me Mycroft, if you wish me to call you Gregory. It seems only fair."

"A Holmes who knows how to play fair. Can I deal with you instead of your brother from now on?" Chuckling a little at the nervousness he'd obviously engendered in the younger man, he decided to take mercy.

"Actually, do you maybe want to go for coffee sometime? If you want to 'speak with me' again, I mean, a coffee shop's a lot more comfortable than this warehouse. And I bet you'd enjoy it."

Mycroft, whose mind processed information at a rate three times as fast as that of the average person's, and whose memory never failed to capture even the tiniest detail, felt his brain completely stop for three seconds. It was an unheard of occurrence, but was not as shocking, somehow, as the fact that Gregory was still standing there, waiting for an answer, a small, roguish smile on his face that said he knew exactly what he was doing, and that he didn't plan to stop.

"Do you mean as a date?" The words had just fallen out—no one had ever asked him out before, or even really _wanted_ to spend time with him in any sense—and now Mycroft realized how naïve he sounded, too late. Fortunately, though, Greg fixed him with another one of those flirtatious smiles, reminding him of a cat with a bowl of cream sitting in front of him. There was no way, _no way_, he was inspiring that kind of reaction. Was the Detective Inspector messing with him? It was the only explanation he could think of, short of assuming he was drunk enough to have his 'beer goggles' on.

"Well, that all depends. Is the government allowed to date? If not, I think we could call it a strategy meeting. Anyone who's met your brother would understand that. Of course, I doubt we would do much talking about your brother… or much talking at all, in the right setting…" Winking at Mycroft, Greg settled back against a support beam and crossed his arms over his chest, pleased with himself. He sounded like the confident man he'd been twenty years before, when his hair had been brown instead of silver and his body had been younger. From the way Mycroft was looking at him, he could easily have still been that man, and it was as good for his ego as it was for his libido.

"I… Well." Flustered in a way he hadn't been since his first and only disastrous high school crush, Mycroft studied Greg carefully, trying to discern any hint of duplicitousness. When he didn't see anyway, he was astounded. The man was genuinely flirting with him.

"Come on, Mycroft. Don't you ever just live dangerously?" The flirtation was too obvious to ignore or pretend away now, and Mycroft knew that if he tried to speak, he was just going to trip over his tongue. It was a good thing, then, that Gregory chose that moment to stalk toward him with slow, confident steps, that wicked grin still tugging at his lips as he came to stand right before the government man, before gently reaching up to wrap his hand around the back of his neck.

Then those lips were on his, and Mycroft was lost, lost to sensation, lost to lust and happiness, two things he'd so rarely experienced that he'd begun to wonder if those sorts of things simply weren't a part of his genetic makeup. Now, in one blinding flash of a moment, he realized he'd been wrong, so wrong. He hadn't felt attraction before because he'd been waiting for this man, this one man who could see through the walls he constructed and was brave enough to touch him anyway, brave enough to claim a kiss, brave enough to slowly walk him backward until his back came into contact with another support beam, hold him there with a slow grind of hips against hips that made Mycroft whimper a little.

When he pulled back from the kiss, it was a slow, sultry action, and he went back once more to nip at Mycroft's lip before giving him space. It was only then that he realized that he'd all but forgotten to breathe.

Sucking in oxygen, he tried to process the flames that had overridden his system entirely, only to find that because he had no experiences for comparison, he was simply going to have to ride it out.

"There, now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" For a moment, Mycroft thought the Detective Inspector was talking to himself, and he felt bile rise in his throat at the idea that the other man had worried that kissing him would be awful. Then he wondered if he actually had been awful, and _why_ Greg had kissed him. Had Sherlock dared him to do this? But fortunately, before he could open his mouth to retort he realized that Greg's eyes were still on him. Waiting for him to answer the question. He mumbled something, barely able to hear his own words over the pounding of his heart. He cleared his throat and tried again.

"Why are you doing this?" Something in him felt broken, and he thought it might just be the wall of ice he'd constructed to keep everyone out. It didn't make any sense, that Gregory had kissed him, had asked him out, had even _smiled_ at him. Mycroft could see no logic to it, and he felt horribly vulnerable.

"I like you, Mycroft. And I always was a sucker for the shy, studious type. And don't get me wrong, but I find it sweet that you care so much for your brother, even though he's kind of a jerk most of the time. He's told me enough stories that I know you watch over him even though he acts like he resents it."

"You've only just met me…" Mycroft protested weakly, as though he knew he was going to lose. That was incorrect; he already had lost. Gregory, this man who'd been his first kiss, had the potential to be so, so much more, already had him in a corner, and while that was a place Mycroft had not allowed himself to be since he'd been a teenager, he found he didn't mind. That scared him, a little. But more than that, it aroused him, and he realized he didn't mind being at a disadvantage, just this once.

"So? I believe in my instincts. And they tell me that you're worth getting to know better. So have coffee with me. Or dinner. Or sex. Whatever you want, My." Leaving it open was a risk, and Greg knew that. But he needed to know that Mycroft was actually with him, not just caught up in the moment. The kiss had been spectacular, and Greg wanted more, but he needed to know that Mycroft felt the same way.

"I… Yes." Blushing bright pink, Mycroft answered him, earning another chuckle. Nervous, he was too nervous to fully comprehend the question he'd been asked, or the result he'd garnered. He let his mind go back over the words he'd heard but not quite processed, and blushed harder.

"I… that is… Dinner sounds good." He could barely force the words out, over the embarrassment and confusion that were mingling inside him, but below that, somehow, there was also desire and… hope.

"Good. Want to go now, or would you prefer to kidnap me again another night?" Mischievously, Greg traced a finger down his silky tie and back up again, before sliding that finger down, down, down, stopping just above the surprisingly large bulge in the front of those beautifully tailored pants.

"I think tonight sounds… lovely." He was recovering his usual composure, but it wasn't easy when Lestrade was still looking at him like he would be fun to devour. Still, he attempted to flirt back, hoping that his words sounded sufficiently flirtatious. He wanted so very badly not to screw this up.

"Good. Shall we, then? I assume you've a car somewhere around here?" Companionably, Greg looped his arm through Mycroft's, escorting him to the door. Outside, though the sky was darkening, it was still a beautiful night.


End file.
